“You see,” continued Henry argumentatively, “it gives, as it were, a kind of interest to life which nowadays, with everything going smoothly, and no chance of a row anywhere except in your own house, is apt to become a bit monotonous.  There was a chap I got to know pretty well one winter when I was working in Dresden at the Europaischer Hof:  a quiet, meek little man he was, a journeyman butcher by trade; and his wife was a dressmaker, a Schneiderin, as they call them over there, and ran a fairly big business in the Praguer Strasse.  I’ve always been told that German husbands are the worst going, treating their wives like slaves, or, at the best, as mere upper servants.  But my experience is that human nature don’t alter so much according to distance from London as we fancy it does, and that husbands have their troubles same as wives all the world over.  Anyhow, I’ve come across a German husband or two as didn’t carry about with him any sign of the slave driver such as you might notice, at all events not in his own house; and I know for a fact that Meister Anton, which was the name of the chap I’m telling you about, couldn’t have been much worse off, not even if he’d been an Englishman born and bred.  There were no children to occupy her mind, so she just devoted herself to him and the work-girls, and made things hum, as they say in America, for all of them.  As for the girls, they got away at six in the evening, and not many of them stopped more than the first month.  But the old man, not being able to give notice, had to put up with an average of eighteen hours a day of it.  And even when, as was sometimes the case, he managed to get away for an hour or two in the evening for a quiet talk with a few of us over a glass of beer, he could never be quite happy, thinking of what was accumulating for him at home.  Of course everybody as knew him knew of his troubles—­for a scolding wife ain’t the sort of thing as can be hid under a bushel,—­and was sorry for him, he being as amiable and good-tempered a fellow as ever lived, and most of us spent our time with him advising him for his good.  Some of the more ardent would give him recipes for managing her, but they, being generally speaking bachelors, their suggestions lacked practicability, as you might say.  One man bored his life out persuading him to try a bucket of cold water.  He was one of those cold-water enthusiasts, this fellow; took it himself for everything, and always went to a hydropathic establishment for his holidays.  Rumour had it that Meister Anton really did try this experiment on one unfortunate occasion—­worried into it, I suppose, by the other chap’s persistency.  Anyhow, we didn’t see him again for a week, he being confined to his bed with a chill on the liver.  And the next suggestion made to him he rejected quite huffily, explaining that he had no intention of putting any fresh ideas into his wife’s head.